


Apollo's Requiem

by neurotrophicfactors



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Past Relationship(s), Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Pining, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26345386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neurotrophicfactors/pseuds/neurotrophicfactors
Summary: Though countless thousands of years have passed since the Sundering, though Emet-Selch has met many of the sundered shards of his dearest friends and companions, still he was ill-prepared to meethim.It makes him almost envy Lahabrea and Elidibus for their lack of acuity when it comes to the nuances of the soul.
Relationships: Azem/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch & Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	Apollo's Requiem

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story of Emet-Selch's struggle to come to terms with what has become of his world and the man that he once loved. While writing this, I pictured the Warrior of Light as the classic Meteor Survivor from the trailer, but I left my descriptions of him intentionally vague so that you can picture him however you want. Enjoy!

The hour approaches. He sits reclined on the grass with his palms pressed into the earth, gathering creases as he tips his head toward the midday sky. With his eyes closed, the warmth of the sun feels like a lover's kiss against his lips and the column of his throat--the rest of his body masked and draped in charcoal robes. He is waiting, but he bears the demeanour of a man content in his solitude. 

And he is, he insists despite the still-image in his pocket. It is a simple concept that took only the barest effort to manifest. He needed only to remember rosy skin and loose, tumbling waves of bronze. A lopsided smile and a strong jawline beginning to sprout faint stubble grown from too much time spent on the road and too little in front of a mirror. Eyes of gold, bright with mirth. 

The sun disappears and his lips tug unthinkingly into a frown, prompting a laugh from above. And when he opens his eyes, that smile is there--now moving and backlit by the gleam of his soul, brilliant as ever despite the dark hue of his robes. His hair tumbles loose from his cowl and frames the sides of his face and mask. 

"'Hello' would have sufficed," Emet-Selch drawls, his voice carrying the suggestion of a bite. 

The other man's grin is undiminished. "But then I would have missed that wistful expression of yours! What ever were you thinking about, Hades?" 

The playful lilt of his companion's voice only further sours his own expression in defiance. "Certainly nothing of import to you, _Azem_." 

His laugh comes again and slender fingers lower to capture a lock of lily white hair. "I am always interested to hear your thoughts, _Emet-Selch._ You see? Doesn't it sound strange for me to call you by title?"

Emet-Selch sighs, a long-suffering sound. The city falls away around them, Amaurot's brilliant spires and glittering fountains. The people that walk the streets and along the winding paths of the park he's sat in. The whispering tree branches and warbling birds. All the world fades into the background as Azem takes center stage, blazing into needle-sharp focus before him. His fingertips burn a path across his skin as they brush the corner of Emet-Selch's jaw.

He indulges him. "Tell me of your travels, Apollo." 

And Azem's smile grows even wider, eyes as warm and radiant as twin suns. 

  
  


His eyes open to darkness; a rarity in the First, but becoming increasingly common as the Warrior forges a path across Norvrandt. More and more, Emet-Selch has found himself lost in dreams of the past. It is not because he is any closer to seeing his goals realized--even once the First falls, there are several shards yet to rejoin with the Source. Nay, the only explanation that remains is _him_. The Warrior of Light, or Darkness as they now call him. 

His mouth twists with distaste. Though countless thousands of years have passed since the Sundering, though Emet-Selch has met many of the sundered shards of his dearest friends and companions, still he was ill-prepared to meet _him_ . It makes him almost envy Lahabrea and Elidibus for their lack of acuity when it comes to the nuances of the soul. Well, Emet-Selch thinks grimly, perhaps not Lahabrea, for his own oversight led him to underestimate the Warrior of Light, which would ultimately result in his demise. But their inability to recognize him and see him for what he once was, how far he has fallen, is a blessing. This fragmented, mangled _thing._

All plans fell to the wayside when Eorzea's Hero showed up in the First. It was something he and Elidibus had not accounted for; and why should they have? Such magicks were unprecedented in the people of the shards. But then again, the Warrior of Light had always defied expectation... as had Azem. Thus did Emet-Selch decide to observe: to measure the abilities of the thing Azem had become and, if he was being more honest with himself, to see if it was worthy of the life its piecemeal soul granted him. 

It is a decision Emet-Selch is somewhat regretting. It is impossible to be objective when faced with Azem's remains, this much he will admit. To look at the Warrior of Light is to look at a walking corpse missing half of its limbs. Grotesque. He is similar enough to tug at Emet-Selch's heartstrings--his gestures, his lopsided smile, and the way he holds a sword--but for all his similarities, he is yet painfully deficient. A walking corpse is still a walking corpse, and every reminder of it fills Emet-Selch with revulsion and rancor. 

At first Emet-Selch had fancied the idea of traveling by the Warrior's side to watch from up close, but between the petty, vapid commentary of his companions and the Warrior's own rebarbative ignorance, he quickly grew disenchanted with the notion and surmised that it would be easier to tolerate in small doses. Thus does Emet-Selch find himself strolling into the Ocular to observe from the side of his second object of curiosity: the Crystal Exarch. 

Attuned to the Crystal Tower as he is, Emet-Selch's sudden arrival does not escape the Exarch's notice, and his hooded head turns toward his unexpected guest before the rest of his body follows, facing his back to the image of the Warrior of Light on the 'mirror' behind him. His posture seems almost defensive and it would be amusing were it not so tiresome. 

"Emet-Selch," says the Exarch, his voice dripping with saccharine disdain, "to what do I owe the pleasure? I was under the impression that you were accompanying our friends to the Greatwood." 

As if he had not watched Emet-Selch's departure himself only the day before. Nevertheless, Emet-Selch decides to humour him. "Oh, I was, but it was all promising to be so tedious. And thus I elected to watch events unfold from the comfort of your company. I'm sure you don't mind."

The way the Crystal Exarch's lips press together makes it clear that he very much _does_ mind, and the physical evidence of his diplomatic restraint is nearly enough to make Emet-Selch laugh. Silently, the diminutive man turns away from the Ascian to watch as his Hero treks through the forest with his bumbling Scions. It is not doubt for the Warrior's abilities that motivates the Exarch to watch him; that much is obvious from his unabashed confidence in the man's abilities. If Emet-Selch were to judge, he would say that the Exarch is smitten. It is a rankling thought that he has no desire to scrutinize. 

Frustrations aside, he is a fascinating man, the Exarch. Utterly fearless and unlike any other on the Source--and Emet-Selch knows that he must hail from the Source: there is no other explanation for his affinity for the Crystal Tower. A man of royal Allagan blood with a soul more dense than those of his home world. Curiouser and curiouser. The question then becomes how he came to the First and learned to call others across the rift. Emet-Selch knows well what the Tower is capable of, and traversing time and space is not one of its faculties. 

He crosses his arms. "I was under the impression that _you_ had an appointment in Eulmore to attend. Having second thoughts?" 

For a moment, Emet-Selch thinks that the Exarch is not going to deign him with a response, but then he says coolly, "No. I merely wished to appraise myself of our mutual friend's progress before taking my leave. You will have to make an audience of yourself alone." The image fizzles out, leaving empty, faceted crystal behind as the Exarch moves past Emet-Selch like a storm. 

Emet-Selch does not care to stop him, but merely smirks after his figure as the last ruby drop of royal blood makes his way down the corpse of his fallen empire. 

  
  


The Exarch's infatuation would be easier to tolerate if it was merely a one-sided affair, but it is not. Emet-Selch knows how Azem looks when he is yearning, and the Warrior of Light looks the same. Blue eyes soft, but burning in their intensity as once did gold. A raging inferno held carefully in check even as the flames lick against the surface. Even when he is not smiling, the yearning is conspicuous to he who knows what to look for. 

It makes him ache to see it again and _boil_ to see it directed at another. Which is ridiculous, _really_ , Emet-Selch thinks to himself with disgust. The Warrior of Light is a shade. A pale imitation of the man that Emet-Selch once knew. A mangled, reanimated corpse. The Exarch is only worse: just as broken but with none of the redeeming qualities of noble origins. He is no one and _nothing_. But still it vexes him to watch how they dance around each other in the Ocular. The Exarch's quiet but fierce protectiveness and the Warrior's yearning. 

It matters little in the end, Emet-Selch thinks. Already he can see the remnants of Azem's soul fraying at the seams as the light seeps in to fill the cracks and split them wider. He is not entirely sure how he feels about it. A part of him is morbidly curious to see if what's left of it can withstand the onslaught. Another part of him thinks that he would be better off if it didn't. Putting a wounded animal out of its misery.

_Azem, Azem, Azem..._

The Exarch is exactly the sort of person Azem would have adored. And for that, Emet-Selch loathes him almost as much as he loathes the Warrior of Light. Perhaps even more so.

  
  


A spell may have sufficed, but a gun was more satisfying. The physical act of pulling the trigger. The ear-piercing crack as the bullet was propelled from the barrel. The spray of blood as it burrowed deep into the Crystal Exarch’s back. 

He had never thought of himself as a sadistic man, but there had been some fleeting satisfaction in seeing the Warrior’s face afterward as well. The horror-anguish-heartache as the Exarch’s magic fizzled out and the man staggered forward before collapsing in a heap on the marble like a severed marionette. A distant echo of Emet-Selch’s own anguish so long ago. 

Very soon the Warrior’s transformation would be complete. His threadbare soul was unraveling and any intervention at this point would be merely delaying the inevitable. He was not strong enough. He was not Azem. And yet… Emet-Selch felt a little responsible for him. Just a little. Enough to extend an invitation that the Ascian may watch over his beloved’s remains in their final moments before he was consumed by primordial light. It was not a dignified end, but it was one that the Warrior in all his ignorance had brought upon himself. Though Emet-Selch had cut away the life raft, it was the Warrior who chose to sail on storm-tossed seas.

A groan draws Emet-Selch from his reverie and his gaze falls to the bound figure on the floor. His ears flatten against the dome of his skull and the miqo’te attempts to curl in on himself, teeth gritting against the pain. The bullet wound in his back is no longer bleeding--Emet-Selch had seen to that. The Exarch could hardly divulge his secrets if he was dead, after all.

Once the cowl fell back and the Crystal Exarch’s identity was revealed, the final pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The density of his soul, his connection to the Crystal Tower, his knowledge of the looming Eighth Umbral Calamity, and even his affections for the Warrior of Light. A figment of the Warrior’s past suspended in time until he awoke to a distant future--now returned to undo the very events which doomed his world. It is nauseatingly romantic. Emet-Selch wants to learn from him.

As the Exarch’s vibrant red eyes open, Emet-Selch leans over him to speak. “Awake now, are you? Good. I have use for you yet.” 

The Exarch does not look at him. Instead, stubbornly, he turns his head away with a sigh and closes his eyes once more. It is an act of petulance and Emet-Selch does not have the patience for it. Not now. Rolling his eyes, he draws back his booted foot and drives it into the prone man’s back. A choked noise is punched out of the Exarch as pain lances through him. He is very likely bleeding again, but so long as he isn’t dead, everything is roses.

Emet-Selch’s voice remains steady--calm even--as he strolls away to admire his own work: the vast halls and city streets of Amaurot resurrected. It is a ghost town; quite literally with the phantom Amaurotines milling about. Beneath the waves of the Tempest, he could almost pretend it is night, the clouds blanketing the stars and hiding them from view. The streetlamps are aglow and light spills through windows and open doorways invitingly. Home, but not home. An aching memory of home. 

“G’raha Tia, was it? A remarkable thing you have accomplished, for a half-wit. Traversing the rift _and_ through time. I am impressed.”

The Exarch draws ragged breaths behind him and does not answer.

“You are supposed to thank someone when they compliment you.” 

He glances behind himself in time to see the Exarch shake his head minutely, red eyes staring determinedly at the floor. 

“You would save yourself a lot of trouble by killing me now,” says the Exarch. 

_"Killing_ you? I’ve finally discovered a shade worth _learning_ from. Killing you would be a waste.” Emet-Selch huffs. “And besides… who better to watch the grand finale with me? It will be just like old times.”

His brows furrow, gaze flickering toward Emet-Selch without thinking before he draws it away again. “‘Grand finale’?”

“Your Warrior’s transformation, of course! Why, you didn’t think I set this entire stage for myself, did you?”

Silence.

“Well, perhaps a little, yes. But a more fitting end, I could not imagine!” He spreads his arms theatrically wide. “A send-off from his love before the tatters of his soul give out and the abomination he becomes rises from the depths of the sea to bring the star to its knees. The champion of the people now a monster from their worst nightmares… It fair brings a tear to the eye.” Emet-Selch sighs wistfully and pictures golden irises and bronze hair. “This is your doing, you know. You should bear witness to the fruits of your labour.”

And then the Exarch has the gall to laugh. A weak and bitter sound, but unmistakable. “You underestimate him,” he says. 

Fury rises suddenly in his throat, a volcanic eruption that spills words like hot magma from his tongue. “ _You destroyed him!_ You cannot see it because you are blind and ignorant! Even had your plan succeeded, even had you taken the light from him and martyred yourself in the rift, his fragmented soul is _damaged,_ barely clinging to its form! Crushed beneath the weight of the light!”

 _Now_ the Exarch looks at him, wide eyes searching his face for the truth he already should have known. His lips are parted like this news comes as a surprise to him, and the sheer bold-faced stupidity of it is almost enough to make Emet-Selch reconsider killing him. 

But then the Exarch speaks, soft and bewildered. “You love him.”

There is a moment of stunned silence and then a snarl of frustration. While killing him is out of the question, beating him is not. Emet-Selch marches over to the Exarch and throws a kick at his face, caring little for where he aims. 

“My loved ones are _dead_ ,” he spits. “I am going to bring them back and you are going to help me, willing or no!”

He does not wait for an answer. He kicks again.

  
  


Love. The great motivator of all sentient beings. Love of the family, love of the community, love of the self. All-encompassing and ever-enduring. Out of love, half of the world gave up their lives to bring salvation to the other. Out of love, the few who survived the Sundering have persisted for thousands upon thousands of years, all the while endeavouring to bring their world and people back. Out of love, seven worlds have been brought to their end and seven more are scheduled to follow. Countless atrocities committed for love.

And now the Warrior of Light, whole and stable and looking more like Azem than ever, stands before him out of love.

But not for him.

“We came here for the Exarch,” the Warrior had said, eyes full of passion and fire even as he was falling to pieces. 

He has to concede that they are well-matched, for the Exarch is no less obstinate, nor less defiant. Sometimes saving a single person feels like saving the world. On the rare occasion, they are one and the same. 

Hades sighs as he pushes back his hood and feels the artificial wind pluck at his hair. If he closes his eyes now, it almost feels like fingertips playing along his jaw. The sun, like a lover’s kiss. He knows not what the future holds: for him, for the man before him and his companions, for the world he stands in and those that remain. But no longer does it feel like his burden to bear.

Apollo’s hair was a little lighter, his eyes a different hue. His skin was flawless, unmarked by the scars of battles past, and he was much taller. Taller even than Hades. 

Apollo is no more. His soul was split and scattered across one and thirteen shards. Before Hades stands the Warrior of Light: Apollo’s heir and successor, even if he does not know it. 

“Remember,” Hades beseeches him. “Remember us.” His eyes fall closed and he can almost hear Apollo’s laughter on the breeze, warm and beckoning. “Remember… that we once lived.”

The Warrior meets his eyes from across the platform, his expression solemn, but resolved. He may be broken, but in his own way, he is beautiful in his imperfection. Slowly, his head dips in a nod and he murmurs, “I swear it.”

The corners of Hades’ lips tug into a smile and he feels himself soften, relieved. Relaxing for the first time in millenia. It is not the end that he had pictured for himself and certainly not what he’d intended, but few people have the luxury of choosing the nature of their own death. That said, as he feels his aether begin to disperse, he thinks that he could do far worse. 

For all his life, Hades had admired the beauty of the Underworld. He wonders now how it will appear from within.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and may you ever walk in the light of the crystal.


End file.
